


fingerprints

by corpsesoldier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, I will write a little lonelyeyes as a treat, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24571954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corpsesoldier/pseuds/corpsesoldier
Summary: Elias didn’t really expect Peter to come back from the Lonely, that last time. Not if everything went according to plan.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 74





	fingerprints

Elias goes to ground after the little confrontation at the Institute. His pieces are all in place. All he has left to do is wait.

The flat was mostly an indulgence. He could stay in the Institute indefinitely—is stronger there, in fact, with little need to eat or sleep—but it doesn’t seem prudent with the police combing the tunnels. It’s useful to have a place to go when he needs to make a show of leaving for the night, when some of his staff start to wonder a little too hard about their employer’s unsettling habits. And he does enjoy a soft bed every now and again.

The door creaks open onto a dim, dusty room, the air stale. Elias wrinkles his nose. Of course, his recent incarceration meant it had been some time since he’d been here last. He supposes he’ll have to tidy up. No telling exactly how long he’ll need to be here, how long the police will take pawing through his belongings, how long until his statement finds its way into Jon’s hands. 

He finds an overcoat draped across the back of a kitchen chair. Heavy fabric to keep out the chill ocean wind. Probably left there deliberately to annoy him. When he touches it, for a moment he imagines it damp with spray.

He hangs it up in the closet where it belongs and closes the door neatly behind him.

There’s a mug in the sink, unrinsed, the bottom stained with dry coffee. Elias briefly considers throwing it away. It’s chipped and worn and doesn’t match his other mugs—curling script on the side spelling out “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” He grimaces. Then he washes it, dries it, tucks it away in the back of a cabinet where it won’t get in his way the next time he wants a cup of tea.

Eventually the flat is livable again. Dust free countertops and clean sheets and streak-free windows. And then there’s nothing but the waiting. 

He thinks about reaching out toward Jon, just for something to do, to watch, but there’s the outside possibility he’s strong enough to sense his gaze. Don’t want to give him any cause for concern. Let him have his little holiday.

Instead he watches police overturn his office. He watches the Detective, adrift. Her mad dog with her deadly purpose rekindled. Watches any number of Institute employees going about their mundane little lives, keeping tabs on what belongs to him. The gap in his perception where Ms. King should be nags at him like a missing tooth. 

Other gaps are more familiar. It had always been difficult to see through the fog, after all.

He keeps finding things around the flat. Even after he thought he’d put everything back in its place, something would turn up as if he’d overlooked it. A half-smoked pack of cigarettes on the balcony. A book on the nightstand, place marked with a torn scrap of newspaper. A shirt kicked halfway underneath the bed.

He feels like he’s being taunted. Goaded. Like someone leaves every room moments before he enters. Someone disordering his life, just out of sight. Someone who could disappear at will, perhaps. Who was, by his own design, difficult to perceive.

One morning Elias notices a bottle of cologne on the bathroom counter, its cap left loose beside it. He watches it warily. Catches his own eyes in the mirror. Familiar eyes, in a face that never looks quite right even decades later. He replaces the lid, weighs the glass bottle in his hand.

“Peter?” Crisp. Casual. Like he’d heard the front door open and expected a reply.

None comes. The silence rolls over him in waves until he can’t stand it.

Cleaning up the broken glass gives him something to do, but now the bathroom reeks of overpriced cologne and Elias decides he needs some air.

Going to the Institute is a risk, but the police are about fed up with their so-called investigation. Elias knows his way through the tunnels well enough to bypass any potential trouble. He arrives at his office with the intention of putting his house in order.

The plaque on his door reads “Office of Peter Lukas.”

His desk is covered in notes written in an impenetrable private school scrawl. There’s a stack of statements marked “Extinction” in a box on one of his shelves. A ship in a bottle, of all things, beside it. Another damned mug, not quite empty. 

Elias scoffs. For someone who abhors human connection, Peter certainly insisted on leaving fingerprints all over his life.

He didn’t really expect Peter to come back from the Lonely, that last time. Not if everything went according to plan. Jon needed his final mark. Elias needed an Archive. And Peter had lost his gamble. 

No one can worm their way out of a bad situation like a Lukas, he supposes. But even still, he hadn’t really expected anything.

He clears it all out. Sweeps everything into a box and shoves it into a storage closet. He’ll organize it later, he thinks. There’s plenty of time.

Some time later, the world ends.

Elias sits in his office—properly his office again, he even found his plaque tucked into a drawer—and feels reality shift around him. He smiles. Enjoys the satisfaction of a long, arduous job done well. The Institute had been quiet and empty for too long, no schedules to make, no people to manage, no strings to pull. Elias is good at waiting. That doesn’t mean he enjoys it. Finally, he thinks with a sigh, the real fun can begin.

Except.

Except he doesn’t feel the Eye’s gaze upon him. Not the way he expected. He doesn’t feel its scrutiny bearing down on him like a crown. He wrenches open a window and looks up into what used to be the sky, and every fathomless pupil is turned away from him, focused on something over the distant horizon. Elias can feel the Eye’s awareness strung like piano wire humming in the back of his mind and follows it there.

It’s watching Jon. Of course it’s watching Jon. A humorless laugh escapes him.

He feels a chill on the back of his neck. It plucks at him like fingers, urging him to turn. Already, he’s forgotten what was funny. 

His office looks unfamiliar to him. Is it his office? No, he thinks, it must be somebody else’s. He’d gotten confused. Turned around.

But that doesn’t make sense. This is his Institute. He knows every corner of his Institute. Maybe it is his office. It’s hard to make out details through the fog.

Elias’ eyebrows draw together, puzzled. He feels the chill again, creeping up his legs. When he looks down, tendrils of mist ooze across the floor. They curl around his ankles possessively, almost gently.

“Ah,” he says. Understanding, briefly. But the thought slips away from him, and he can’t remember the reason for the hollow ache in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> me like "ok I will write lonelyeyes but Only if elias suffers"
> 
> you can come say hi on tumblr [here!](https://corpsesoldier.tumblr.com)


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